


Pierrot (Behind This Broken Mask)

by aldebaran26, njw



Series: Jaytim Week Prompt Oneshots and Stories [17]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, JayTimWeek2021, M/M, Multiverse, Redemption, Somehow it makes things worse, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Pierrot, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, unmasking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 01:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30081528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldebaran26/pseuds/aldebaran26, https://archiveofourown.org/users/njw/pseuds/njw
Summary: Tim rides his bike, his small legs aching and his breath a ragged gasp by the time he reaches Gotham City proper. His legs shake and his heart slams as he steps off his bike, adrenaline shooting through him as he sees the dark buildings looming overhead and seriously questions whether or not this was a good idea.Then the screaming starts. It’s distant, accompanied by the sounds of explosions and a loud voice declaring some villain or other as the new ruler of Gotham, but Tim doesn’t care about any of that.He creeps closer, keeping to the shadows and hugging the side of the nearest building despite the grime which rubs off on his small white hands and the rough brick that catches and tears at his soft clothes. The screaming grows louder.Tim closes his eyes and remembers. It hurts, but it feels good.He can’t stop poking at it.*For thetumblr Jaytim Week 2021day two request | Redemption/Fall from Grace.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Tim Drake, Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Series: Jaytim Week Prompt Oneshots and Stories [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1356295
Comments: 12
Kudos: 114
Collections: JayTim Week 2021





	Pierrot (Behind This Broken Mask)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is fully drafted and edited, but I got a little overambitious when I decided to write the rest of my villain Tim series for Jaytim Week and the last one isn't even half edited yet. They all overlap in chapter 5, so I don't want to post ahead in any of them until that last one is done, just in case any edits from that one need to roll through the rest. I’m planning to take a bit more time to polish them up, and will update them weekly on Fridays until complete. 
> 
> Credit for the Pierrot character goes to the wonderful Aldebaran, who created all the lovely art for this and gave me permission to build a story around it. Thanks, Aldebaran!  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes this chapter from Batman #436

Everything is loud and the vivid colors are so different from anything Tim has ever experienced. The crowd jostles against him and he holds on tight to his mother’s hand, glad that the public nature of the outing means she’ll let him cling to her even if it means a scolding later. He’s four years old, big enough to walk on his own, but sometimes he wishes his parents would hold his hand and pat his head, even when no one important is looking.

It’s silly and he knows better, but he can’t help it.

His heart races at the excitement of being out with his parents. They’re back in Gotham for three whole days this time! Father seems to be in a good mood for once and that means no loud arguments or slamming doors later, no harsh words or rough handling when Tim inevitably gets in the way or calls attention to himself somehow. He always seems to, no matter how hard he tries to be quiet and unobtrusive.

Maybe if Tim is very, very good, they’ll even extend their stay for another day or two. It’s a little scary when they’re home, his heart in his throat and racing with worry that he’ll do something wrong and upset them, especially if they’re in bad moods, but like this…

He can almost pretend they’re like the families in the books he reads during the long stretches when they’re traveling. His rapt gaze catches on a family nearby, the mother holding one small child wrapped in her arms while the father boosts a slightly bigger child up onto his shoulders. They’re all smiling even though the kids are being loud, yelling and pointing as they squirm in excitement. No one scolds them or grips their shoulders too tight, and the father’s jaw isn’t clenched. Neither are his fists, not even when the child on his shoulders accidentally pulls his hair.

It’s so strange.

Tim blinks and files that mystery away to puzzle over later. Right now, he’s at the circus for the first time ever and he’s planning on having an amazing night. The crowd thickens as they approach the big red and white tent that stands so tall against the night sky, an illuminated and brilliant contrast to the towering black clouds that don’t quite blot out the moon. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face if he tried.

Several people dressed in bright, flashy colors move past them, walking at a brisk pace. They’re obviously performers and Tim practically vibrates with excitement when he recognizes them as the Flying Graysons. They’re a family act, the mom and dad both world-class acrobats and their son, Dick, well on his way to matching them in caliber and skill.

Tim’s father glances after the Graysons with a measuring look, then puts on a charming grin and calls after them, “Um, excuse us for interrupting, but this is Tim’s first time at the circus. We were wondering if you’d let us take your photo with him?”

Mary Grayson turns with a genuine-looking smile, her gaze softening when she spots Tim. “Of course, we’d be delighted.” Her voice is warm.

It doesn’t seem like any time at all before Tim’s sitting perched on Dick Grayson’s knee and saying “cheese” as the strongman takes their picture, using the phone Tim’s mother hands him.

Dick tousles his hair and says he’ll do a quadruple flip just for him. It’s so exciting, he can barely keep from wiggling.

Tim stares after the Graysons in awe, hand reaching up to softly touch his own hair. Dick’s parents are smiling and talking to their son as they walk away. They all seem so kind and affectionate. He wonders if that’s part of their performance, too, or if they still act like that away from the crowds.

“That will be a good photo to include in the company newsletter,” his mother says, absently shaking Tim off when he tentatively tries to slip his hand back into hers. Well, it was good while it lasted.

He draws his arm back into his side, fingers curling. He tries to comfort himself with the remembered warmth of her hand and Dick’s arms around him when the older boy held him on his lap for the picture.

It doesn’t help. He still feels cold.

It’s not long before they’re seated watching the show, and Tim forgets all about everything else for a while. He’s never felt anything like the effervescent joy that fills him as he watches the Graysons soar and somersault through the air, like gravity has no hold on them.

He’s never felt anything like the horror that washes through him in the moment events prove that thought so terribly, tragically wrong. Gravity takes the Graysons and pulls them down, down, down, their brightly clad bodies hitting the ground with an awful sound he can’t hear because the crowds are screaming—they’re _screaming—_

Tim’s mother gathers him in her arms and presses his face to her shoulder, and he can smell her sweet perfume and feel the softness of her wavy, golden hair. He can still see the horror-stricken faces around them, hear the shrill, terrified screams, but his mother’s arms are around him and she’s so soft and warm. Just like he always imagined.

He only realizes he’s screaming, too, when his voice starts to hurt. Or maybe that’s the lump in his throat that’s making him cry. Either way, his mother shushes him and he can feel her breath on his hair, his father’s hand on his back like he’s protecting him, too, like he cares.

Tim can’t seem to rip his stricken gaze away from the shrieking, fleeing crowds even as his heart fills with something warm, something timid and hopeful, basking in the comfort of his parents’ care.

He wishes this moment would last forever.

“This was a waste of time,” his father snarls when they finally make it back to the car. His jaw clenches, as do his fists, and his shoulders are tight in a way that tells Tim tonight’s going to be a night to put his head under his pillow and hum under his breath to drown out the yelling.

He flinches even though his father isn’t talking to him, and then closes his eyes, trying to calm the frantic jump of his heart as his breath goes shaky with nerves. Swallowing with difficulty because his throat is suddenly tight for no reason he can name, Tim slides down in his seat as far as he can without slipping out of the belt so he won’t accidentally catch his father’s eye in the rearview mirror. It’s always best to avoid Jack Drake’s attention when his voice sounds like that, his anger a crackling, formless thing ready to lash out at anyone unlucky enough to draw his eye.

Tim’s mother is silent, her lips pressed in a thin white line, and when she looks at Tim’s father her eyes narrow. Tim winces, but Janet Drake knows exactly what she’s doing and doesn’t seem to care. “This was your idea,” she hisses, long lacquered nails digging into her own skin where her arms are tightly crossed. “None of those photographs will be usable for publicity now—it would be very poor taste, considering what happened to those people.”

“We’ll just have to take more,” Tim’s father says, and Tim’s heart jumps again, this time with foolish hope. Are they going to take him on another outing? Maybe they can go to a park together, or a museum, or… His heart drops back down with his father’s next words. “We’ll just leave for Athens early and have a professional photoshoot there before the excavation begins.” His voice sounds calmer again, his temper clearly soothed at the idea of more travel.

“But Timothy…” his mother starts with a moue of distaste.

“We’ll mention him in the newsletter or something,” his father says in a dismissive tone. “We don’t have time for this. We need to—”

As his parents devolve into discussions that begin with their plans for the family business and quickly segue into the various archaeological projects they intend to spend the next few months working on, Tim curls into himself in the backseat. If he’s very quiet and still, sometimes it feels like he can just disappear.

Sometimes, he wants to.

When his parents leave the next morning, starting their business trip a full two days early, he isn’t surprised.

That doesn’t make it any easier, though.

Tim shivers when he wakes up in a cold house he knows in his bones is empty but for him. Instead of heading to the kitchen to forage for something he can reach and prepare on his own, he slowly tiptoes down the hall, up the stairs, and onto the landing of the third floor. Like always, he freezes, listening, and only creeps forward when he’s positive he’s alone.

His parents have never caught him on their floor, and the thought of that happening makes his heart pound as his fingers start to tremble. His mother would be so mad, and his father—

He doesn’t want to think about his father’s anger. Jack Drake has never once struck him or his mother, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t scary when he’s mad. He yells, and throws things, and sometimes breaks stuff. Tim just wants to hide under his covers when his father gets like that.

He should feel relieved when they go away, but somehow he never does. He just misses them and wishes they would come home.

Tim bites his lip and then tiptoes down the hall. He pauses at the second door for a moment, then passes it in favor of the next. He’ll go into his father’s office later, to look at the impressive collection of leather-bound books, admire the big mahogany desk, and curl up in the leather chair. The stench of his father’s cigars lingers in the office for months sometimes and if he closes his eyes, he can use it to pretend he’s not alone.

Right now, though, he goes to his favorite room in the house. The door to his mother’s private parlor clicks open beneath his hand, and he’s grateful for the thousandth time that his parents don’t bother to lock their private rooms when they leave. He’s certain they would never even dream he might disobey their edicts and venture up here.

As it is, he slips through the door and is instantly enclosed in a cloud of his mother’s perfume, a light floral scent as sweet and welcoming as she is acerbic. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend she’s here, hugging him again like she did last night.

If he also hears faint echoes of the screams that accompanied that hug, well, it’s all part of the same memory now, for better or worse.

He looks at the little trinkets and figurines in her curio cabinets, his gaze tracing over each one before settling on his favorite. The pretty little pantomime figures on the third shelf of the cabinet by the fireplace are pleasingly arranged, almost as though they’re acting out a scene in a play. _Commedia dell'arte,_ his mother called them, the one time she brought him up here herself and showed him her trinkets. She was in a good mood that day, but he ruined it, annoying her quickly with his artless chatter and questions.

He’s learned better now, but she hasn’t brought him up here again.

Tim stares at the figurines, his attention drawn especially to the one on the end. The little figure is dressed all in white, wearing a loose blouse with wide pantaloons. His little white porcelain face is smiling, but looks sad at the same time.

He’s called Pierrot, Tim remembers, from when his mother listed off the names of her pantomime figures. Pierrot has always been his favorite.

As he stares at the little figure trapped behind the glass, he finds his mind drifting back to last night again. He can’t stop thinking about what it felt like to have his parents paying attention to him, holding him like they really cared. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be loved.

He wonders if it’s normal to associate the feeling of being loved with screaming and looks of horror. It probably isn’t.

He wants to feel that way again.

It hurts to remember watching the Graysons fall, but he can’t stop going back to that memory because of the warmth that washes through him when he remembers his mother’s arms around him, her breath in his hair. It reminds him a little bit of the time he had a sore tooth and kept pressing the spot with his tongue, the sensation painful but good in a weird way he can’t explain.

He keeps poking at the feeling, just like he did with the sore tooth. It hurts, but he can’t stop doing it.

Tim closes his eyes, the afterimage of Pierrot’s little white smiling face in his mind’s eye, and breathes in the scent of his mother’s perfume. Screams echo in his ears and the sense memory of his mother’s arms around him is so strong he can almost feel them.

Like this, he can pretend he isn’t alone.

Slipping out of the house a few months later to try to hear those screams again probably isn’t his smartest plan ever, but by now the scent of his mother’s perfume is long gone and he’s getting desperate.

Tim rides his bike, his small legs aching and his breath a ragged gasp by the time he reaches Gotham City proper. His legs shake and his heart slams as he steps off his bike, adrenaline shooting through him as he sees the dark buildings looming overhead and seriously questions whether or not this was a good idea.

Then the screaming starts. It’s distant, accompanied by the sounds of explosions and a loud voice declaring some villain or other as the new ruler of Gotham, but Tim doesn’t care about any of that.

He creeps closer, keeping to the shadows and hugging the side of the nearest building despite the grime which rubs off on his small white hands and the rough brick that catches and tears at his soft clothes. The screaming grows louder.

Tim closes his eyes and remembers. It hurts, but it feels good.

He can’t stop poking at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tiny Tim, clinging to his mother’s hand and staring around wide eyed at the circus:** *Whispers* “Wow”  
>  **Janet Drake, eyeing him disdainfully:** “Quiet, Timothy. Children must be seen and not heard” *Shakes his hand off like an annoyance*  
>  **Jack Drake, spotting the Flying Graysons:** *Scents a photo op, grabs Tiny Tim and pitches him at them* “Yoink!” *Takes photo of confused acrobats holding baffled small child* “Yes perfect, the shareholders will eat this shit up”  
> Later:  
>  **Tiny Tim, watching Flying Graysons perform:** “This is the best night of my life”  
>  **Tiny Tim, watching Flying Graysons fall:** “AaaaaaAAAAAAA!!!”  
>  **Jack and Janet Drake:** *Immediately reach for their small child because they might end up in the background of footage of this on the news and want to look like a normal family*  
>  **Tiny Tim:** *Goes still as Jack and Janet hold him amidst the screams and cries of horror* “Is this… what love feels like?” *Imprints*


End file.
